The Child Buyer (11 page)

hand bike and shouted at me quite a lot. The doctor said he could make some drastic changes by dosing me up, but that he didn't want to. He said to wait and see if puberty wouldn't iron everything out.

Mr. BROADBENT. After the mirror.

BARRY RUDD. I've always been extremely self-conscious about my physical make-up. Once at the museum I saw the transparent woman, and I offered myself to one of the museum guards as a transparent boy. You see, I have this network of tiny veins on the surface of my skin, so I seem to have waxlike flesh.

Senator MANSFIELD. Now, sonny, after the mirror broke.

BARRY RUDD. Just while I was on my hands and knees picking up the pieces—we only have these two rooms, Mother and Father sleep on a convertible in the main room, my sister and I sleep in the kitchen on a rollaway—this was in the main room by the chiffonier, and, as I say, I was on my hands and knees grubbing around when Susan came in. She's my sister, she's seven. She's known as the beauty of the family: Mother says her hair's like silk, and Momma braids it for her, and then Susan has these enormous black lashes around big pale-blue eyes, so when she looks at you, it's this look of perfect surprise and innocence—completely misleading. She's very shrewd. She took in what happened, and she began to rub one forefinger against the other at me, and teased me, and I called her a brat and got after her, but she's too fast for me.

Mr. BROADBENT. So.

BARRY RUDD. I settled down in the kitchen to a problem I'd been thinking about, and I guess I was there about a half-hour, anyway my mother came in and asked what I was doing there moping. 'Always alone!' she said. I didn't say anything, but I thought of a quotation Dr. Gozar gave me one time. Emerson. 'Solitude, the safeguard of mediocrity, is to genius the stern friend.'

Senator SKYPACK. By God, now he's an all-fired little genius.

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BARRY RUDD. Please don't mistake me, I don't think I'm a genius. Only in the sense that I would like to be worthy of Dr. Gozar's . . . that I would like to work as hard as I can. ... I thought of solitary ones—of the boy Newton playing alone with his machines, Edison with his chemicals. As a child Darwin loved long walks by himself, and once he became so absorbed in thought he walked off the end of a wall. Samuel Johnson, not joining in the sports at school, perhaps because of his defective sight and repulsively large size. Shelley, reading alone. Byron, loving to wander at night in the dark, lonely cloisters of the abbey . . .

Mr. BROADBENT. What was the problem you spoke of?

BARRY RUDD. It was out of my field, which is taxonomy. I was just daydreaming about the possibility of four-dimensional tic-tac-toe. I've played the game in three dimensions. The image I had was of a three-dimensional game moving through space at the speed of light. How would you represent X's and O's and their interplay in the fluid terms of that game? You see, I've been able since an early age to think of sizes and shapes and relationships in completely abstract terms, not as concepts related to my body, as is the case with most people. Perhaps I could get away from my body as a basis for si/c comparisons because it's unsatisfactory to me. I'm plain clumsy. When I try to do something with my hands, I just get mad. My grandfather carved violins; my father can use the tiniest tools. I can't even write: I get so impatient with my fingers when ideas are racing through my head!

Mr. BROADBENT. Master Rudd, how is all this connected—

BARRY RUDD. Senator Mansfield asked me to begin at the beginning and not leave anything out, and I've been trying to tell you everything that happened, everything that went through my mind, on the afternoon when all this began. I suppose the

actual beginning was what came next, just after Momma bawled me out for being a hermit—a knock on the kitchen door. This is on the street side, and the door's stuck, so I went to the window and saw it was the G-man, and I rapped on the window and pointed to the alleyway alongisde the house, and he went around to the back. I heard Momma open the door there, and I shut the door between the kitchen and the back room, and I began to hear murmuring in there—my name once in a while. I didn't go in, because I assumed the G-man was talking to Momma about my being maladjusted. I'm sort of famous for being what I think is known as one-sided.

Mr. BROADBENT. They were in fact discussing the child buyer?

BARRY RUDD. That's right. But, Mr. Broadbent, I really think Momma ought to be the one to tell you that part. I could give you what she and Father reported to me later about it, but I should think—

Senator MANSFIELD. All right. Let the boy stand down for the time being, and we'll question his mother about this interview. We'll have him back afterward.

Senator SKYPACK. Agreed! We sure better let this freak step down and let another witness take over, Mr. Chairman. My gaskets can only take so much pressure.

Senator MANSFIELD. All right, sonny. Thank you. You wait out there. . . . Call Mrs. Rudd.

You've been sworn, Mrs. Rudd, just take your seat there, please.

TESTIMONY OF MRS. PAUL RUDD, HOUSEWIFE, TOWN OF PEQUOT

Mr. BROADBENT. We've called you back, Mrs. Rudd, to tell us about Mr. Cleary's visit to your home last Thursday.

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Mrs. RUDD. I'm sorry about this morning. It's very hard, when they want to take your boy away, and when you get a lot of officials . . . swearing your word of honor . . .

Senator MANSFIELD. We understand, ma'am.

Mrs. RUDD. When they've ruined your house and home. They came there, it was after dark, only Barry and Sue and I were home, my husband was off bowling, and we knew they were coming, because Barry had had a warning from his friend, that naughty boy, the Perkonian boy knew all about it, so we managed to barricade the doors, and we were waiting—it was like a bad dream—and first we heard some motorcycles—

Senator MANSFIELD. If you don't mind, ma'am, we'll come to that incident a little later. Right now we'd like to hear about Mr. Cleary.

Mrs. RUDD. It's nothing to you when a person's home—

Senator MANSFIELD. Yes, ma'am, we're very interested in your home, and we want to ask you all about it, but right now . . . Mr. Broadbent, would you—?

Mr. BROADBENT. If you please, Mrs. Rudd, take your mind back to last Thursday afternoon. You had come home from work and found Barry woolgathering at the kitchen table. Mr. Cleary came to call. Please tell us all about that visit.

Mrs. RUDD. It was a kind of warning. He said he wanted to warn us.

Mr. BROADBENT. Please try to remember everything that was said. Exactly what did Mr. Cleary tell you?

Mrs. RUDD. He told me this man, this big businessman, had come to Pequot, and he wanted to buy Barry.

Mr. BROADBENT. Did he say why?

Mrs. RUDD. He said this man—the child buyer—was buying kids for a defense project, that was all he knew. It was a science project of some kind.

Mr. BROADBENT. Did Mr. Cleary say how much the buyer would pay for Barry?

Friday, October 25

Mrs. RUDD. No, he only said it would be a terrible temptation, a terrible lot of money. You see, on that occasion he was trying to warn us, he was against the deal.

Mr. BROADBENT. Why was he against it?

Mrs. RUDD. He said Barry was too young. Too young to be nailed to science/ the way he put it. I asked what would happen to Barry if we sold him, and the G-man said he didn't know exactly, he said there was going to be some kind of experiment on him. The G-man was kind and sympathetic that day, he was like a doctor or minister at a sickbed, and I opened up to him, I told him how my whole life was poured into Barry. The girl's a sweet thing, but she's just a dividend. Barry's everything —everything I wanted to overcome and accomplish. I grew up in rural villages, I told Mr. Cleary, in Sparta and Hastings Center, and the thing I had to fight against was coarseness. It wasn't just the pigs wallowing in the mud and pushing each other aside in the trough; it was in me . . . my family. Coarseness, ignorance. And on top of that there was boredom—nothing to do but work. So I took up reading, both in magazines they had at the community center, Farmer's Journal, Country Gentleman, Wallace's, and these novels—I remember them so clear! Cran-ford. The Vicar of Wakefield. Our Village. Mary Barton. Old Christmas. Northanger Abbey. The opposite of pig shove pig, the very opposite. I made myself into the brightest one in my class, I happen to have a fantastic memory, so I could get high marks easily, and I was going to be a surgeon—you see, I even wanted to use knives to cut out the crudity, filth, sickness—and I got as far as an osteopathy course at Budkin State, but that was all. My father was taken with a shock, and he couldn't farm any more, and the Depression came, and with financial worries I never even finished up on osteopathy preparation. Later on I married Paul Rudd. He'd graduated from high school, and his four sisters were all on their way to becoming nurses; I liked that. And we settled in Treehampstead, where Paul took work as a

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machinest for Trucco, and we had the two children, Barry and Sue, When Barry was five Trucco moved us to their branch plant in Pequot. We didn't prosper, so after a while I took the job in Stillman's—but that was later. All this time Barry was my whole life. He was going to be my victory over coarseness. Before he went to school, way back when he was two or three years old, in the afternoons trying to settle him down for his naps I'd read to him—The Three Bears, Raggedy Ann, Sixty-five Bedtime Stories, Black Beauty, Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates, and some of the books were way too old for him, but it was so surprising, he'd pay close mind, and the second time I'd read a book, if I skipped any, he'd make a fuss and wouldn't allow it. And there was once, long before that, Barry was still creeping, he walked alone at thirteen months, so it was before that (we could tell from the beginning he was marked to be special: he was born with a caul), anyway, one day we had a visit from Mr. Szerenyi, he lived upstairs from us, a Hungarian, very popular, he was president of the Rakosi Society because Treehampstead has a substantial Hungarian population, but he's crazy on the subject of diets. He had this book, its thesis was that the way to eternal life was through eating seafood and vegetables grown within fifty miles of the sea, and Barry was crawling on the floor, and Mr. Szerenyi started reading in a kind of fierce singsong, right from his breastbone and out through his nose, very emotional. I remember it so well! 'Ingestion of these phlogisticatcd fibers causes a knotting action of the stomach muscles. . . /

Senator MANSFIELD. It seems that you, madam, like your son, are blessed with total recall. You surprise a person.

Mrs. RUDD. Blessed? It's a curse, Senator, a curse, when you can't forget any of it! You try to shake it out of your mind, and it sticks there like damp salt. Anyway, he was reading,'. . . This irritation spreads in time through the peritoneal cavities and in-

Friday, October 25

vests in particular the gastrohcpatic omentum with . . .' And then was when it happened. Barry crept to me, and pulled himself up at my knee, and I lifted him in my lap, and where he'd been crashing around with this violent energy, now he suddenly went limp on his back, with an ecstatic expression, watching Mr. Szerenyi's face as he read. Do you see? I mean, words.

Mr. BROADBENT. You told Mr. Cleary all this?

Mrs. RUDD. Yes, sir. Am I saying too much?

Mr. BROADBENT. No, please go on. What else?

Mrs. RUDD. About when Barry began to read. I was lying on my bed in my slip reading a magazine, it was hot summer, and the people in the next building, the Lutri block, they lived by screaming, and I had to rest.

Mr. BROADBENT. This was before you worked at Stillman's?

Mrs. RUDD. Yes, sir, it was. It was before we even moved to Pequot. Barry was four. Four years, one month, eighteen days, and six hours of age. You'll see in a minute why I figured that out. I was lying in my slip reading a news magazine, Barry was beside me, I remember it was about Lord Mountbatten giving freedom to Pakistan, to Mohammed Ali Jinnah—as if you could give it, from one man's hand into another's. I was reading, almost dozing, and Barry said, 'O.K. I'm ready/ and I said what for, and he said for me to turn the page, he'd finished. I laughed because he was always playing tricks on me, but he said no fooling, he'd finished reading the bottom of the page. So I made him read out loud, and he could. He did.'. . . autonomous nation within the British commonwealth/ Hard words. I've sworn an oath, I wouldn't lie to you. He really did.

Mr. BROADBENT. How had he accomplished this?

Mrs. RUDD. The nearest I can figure it, he'd always watched the page when I read aloud to him, and he was always telling me to go slow. Slower! Slower! And I admit I'd dinned the sounds

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of letters into him for a long time. And he just put it all together, I guess. It scared me. I thought I'd done something wrong. Then I told Mr. Cleary about another scare— how something you're proud about can scare you. There was this Martha Massiello, lived in the Buffum block, she's a bad drinker, she used to call around at everyone's house every morning, she looked like a tire that was due for recapping, she'd visit hoping you'd pour her a shot, and her main way of keeping contact with humanity was to tell you bad news. So that morning, a few weeks after that first time Barry read to me, she came in and she said, 'Julia burnt her hand,' and I said I hoped it wasn't serious, and she said Julia was 'gonta live/ Martha was already wobbly, and we looked around, there was Barry sitting on the floor with his legs spread and a book between them and he was reading out loud. I guess I looked proud, and I looked at Martha's face, and there was a look of horror, as if the monster Godzilla had come up at her out of the Bay of Tokyo, and she said, 'Holy God, look at little Einstein!' and she coughed and had a hard time breathing, like she had asthma. And I could tell. That was a warning. It was like a finger pointing at what's happened this week.

Mr. BROADBENT. You say that was a warning, and you were scared — did you do anything about it?

Mrs. RUDD. No, on the contrary, I kept right on the same way. I couldn't help myself. I'm still a reader myself, and I guess I pushed Barry hard as I could. I told Mr. Cleary to look around— he could see the mess, and one of the reasons our rooms are so disorderly is that I read when I ought to be cleaning. I don't have a very broad back for housework, I get up at five thirty in the morning, I get my husband's and children's breakfasts, and then I sit down and read till it's time for me to go to Stillman's. I used to read nothing but good books, but now it's McCall's, the Companion, the Post, Ladies 9 Home Journal, Reader's Di-ver to cover. When I was a girl I never could get

enough maple syrup. It's the same thing in my reading.

Mr. BROADBENT. And Barry?

Mrs. RUDD. Every time I go to the supermarket I drop him off at the library. I want him to read. I want him to work. I want him to be what I wanted to be.

Senator MANSFIELD. With any luck he'll be that, ma'am, and much more.

Mrs. RUDD. If there's one thing I've done for Barry, it's to make him know that luck doesn't help you, you can't count on luck. The only things that help are to plan and to work.

Senator MANSFIELD. You've certainly given him every opportunity, ma'am.

Mrs. RUDD. I've always immersed myself in what Barry was doing and thinking—but you know something? I feel he lacks a natural affection, filial affection, a son for his mother.

Senator MANSFIELD. We received testimony that he dotes on you, ma'am.

Mrs. RUDD. Appearances aren't always what they seem. It's hard for him to show any feelings; sometimes I wonder if he has any. Except he shows them to Sue: that's one place where he's natural, all right. Brat! Crybaby! Stinker! I hate you! All day long.

Mr. BROADBENT. From what you've said, it sounds as if you got along very well with Mr. Cleary that afternoon. Had you liked him in the past?

Mrs. RUDD. I don't like any school people.

Senator MANSFIELD. That's a rather extreme statement, Mrs. Rudd. What do you mean?

Mrs. RUDD. The things they've done to Barry.

Senator MANSFIELD. Such as.

Mrs. RUDD. You want a 'such as'? I'll give you one! I told you we lived in Treehampstead first, Barry was in kindergarten there. All right, we move to Pequot, and in the fall I call up the

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principal at Lincoln, Dr. Gozar, and I say, hello, I want to enter my boy, but she tells me the legal age for entering first grade is different in Pequot than in Treehampstcad—a child has to be six before the following New Year's Day, and Barry's sixth birthday isn't till January nineteenth. He misses by three weeks— nineteen days. So I tell her Barry's already had a year in kindergarten. He can read. That's too bad, Dr. Gozar says, makes no difference; Lincoln doesn't have a kindergarten. No, she says, no exceptions can be made.

Senator MANSFIELD, What happened?

Mrs. RUDD. I got mad, you can imagine. I said I wanted to talk to somebody higher up. She said I could go see Mr. Owing for all the good it would do me. I did; I made an appointment, and I took Barry, and Dr. Gozar was sitting there, with her arms folded and her jaw sticking out like a snow plow. I guess she'd jacked Mr. Owing up with gumption, and he started in about the way children develop—well-rounded—impossible to make special provisions because of lack of funds—overcrowded conditions—child who's younger than the peer group. . . . 'Give him exercise/ he said. 'Get him outdoors.' I asked if there was anyone else I could sec, and Mr. Owing, he went the color of bacon grease, nearly passed out, but Dr. Gozar growled at me: I could see the State Supervisor for Exceptional Children, Miss Henley. She put a heavy emphasis, sarcastic, of course, on 'exceptional/ She must have figured I had the usual exaggerated maternal pride. I came up here to the capital to see Miss Henley, and she lectured me for an hour and a half about what happens when you push a child—I couldn't understand one word in ten. But I've always thought that teachers know everything, so I swallowed it all. No school for Barry; we waited out the year. Barry's father got him a basketball and nailed up a backboard and net out on the porch roof; it's still there, the string's all rotted. Barry never touched the ball. All he wanted was to stay in

Friday, October 25

the house, pencil and paper, a book. He spent half his time with Miss Cloud in the library, she's the librarian, she's a hunchback.

Senator MANSFIELD. So he was six and a half when he finally entered first grade?

Mrs. RUDD. Six years, eight months. With a twelve-year-old mind, they tell me. Turned out he had a good year. Miss Bagas was his teacher; at home nights Barry used to write Miss Bagas love notes. I didn't mind that, I was actually glad. One time Miss Bagas had a nice talk with me about Barry's excellent fol-lowership. Specially fine, she said, considering he was so much more intelligent than the other kids that it would have been easy for him to be overbearing. She said he was popular; she said good followers are always loved.

Senator MANSFIELD. So things came out all right after all.

Mrs. RUDD. Wait a minute, I haven't told you the end of the story yet. Listen. In June of his first-grade year, Barry was double-promoted. It wasn't at my request, you understand. They skipped him over second grade and put him in the third—just where he'd have been if they'd let him in a year early, only now he'd missed the experiences of second grade and he had to make a whole new set of friends. At that time Dr. Gozar begged me not to talk to other mothers about Barry's good fortune—it would cause envy and dissatisfaction.